Making me - 1

My grandfather was an avid golfer. All the thirty three years I knew him, he was retired and played golf every day. When I visited in the summers he would take me with him.  He would play his daily eighteen and I would run around making footprints on the dewy grass. I discovered the newness of morning at the gymkhana golf-course. We would be back by ten and I would have a big breakfast of fresh creme and soft white bread.

I  followed him when the gardener came. Listened to him while he told him how to trim the roses that year and where to plant the annuals. I watched cricket with him and played chess. And I read and read and read. He read on his bed and I read on mine. My bed was set up in his room; he often got up at night to go to the bathroom, and I was the only one in the house who could sleep through the noise.

I miss him. And I am so thankful to him for letting me tag along with him. He went about his day, doing what he was passionate about. And I responded to that passion and fell in love with so much of what he loved. Because of him I find continuous joy in my garden and in dewdrops and in books.

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